


To Light the Fires of Winter

by Elizabeth



Series: Holidays and Seasons [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Halloween, M/M, Rituals, Samhain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 17:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: The Druids' mysterious leader, Emrys, has invited King Arthur to their encampment for Samhain.Eager to solidify their people's alliance, Arthur agrees.AKA: The author was inspired by Samhain and Halloween, and this is the result.





	To Light the Fires of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> I promise the next chapter of Bake Off will be posted in like, the next couple of days. I was just inspired and had to get this down really quick before it was too late. LOVE YOU ALL.
> 
> I don't have a beta, so I apologize for any and all errors.
> 
> ALSO, I am being yelled at to leave the house for a (late) Halloween party as I type this, so I don't have time to proofread. I will later, so please forgive the massive typos that are probably here right now.
> 
> I am clearly indebted to all the great Druid King Emrys stories that have come before. I didn't read Samhain stories before writing it so I am sorry if it is not unique. I really don't know.

“Tell me again what I am to expect.” Arthur clasps a hand over the pommel of his sword, then releases it. He resists the urge to fidget and places his hands flat upon the round table instead. His advisors and knights look at each other in uneasy silence. Leon scratches at the back of his neck and looks to Gwaine. He raises his eyebrows to encourage him—or threaten him with added duties if he remains quiet.

“It is a festival,” Gwaine explains.

“I have never heard of it. What is it again?”

“Samhain, My Lord,” Leon offers.

Gwaine leans forward. “They say it is a time of unparalleled feasting and celebration.”

“Of the harvest?” Arthur asks.

Gwaine shrugs. “More or less.”

“More or less?”

“Yes. The harvest.”

“Don’t trouble yourself with that, Sire,” Leon adds. “This new Druid leader—what is his name, Gwaine?”

“Emrys.”

“Emrys, yes. He has requested you attend. This is… a pivotal moment in relations with the Druids. This new leader has stirred a fervor amongst them. They say he is a man of unmatched wisdom and power.”

Arthur tugs at his shirt cuff. “Is it _wise_ to go amongst them, then? To the seat of their… _kingdom_?”

“It is not a kingdom, Sire,” Leon explains. “The Druids—”

“That is not important, Leon,” Gwaine interrupts. “The _important_ thing is that this festival is one of the Druid’s primary celebrations. The end of the light half of the year, a harbinger of the darkness to come.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“No, it’s a relighting of the hearth fires,” Gwaine explains.

“I thought that was their Beltaine thing.”

“That welcomes the light half of the year.”

“Oh.”

“And,” Gwaine adds with an eyebrow lift, “they say the Druid women…”

“What about them?”

“They are _very_ lovely.”

“Do they?”

“Yes,” Gwaine says. “Especially…”

Arthur stares at him. His heart, which had been pounding at the thought of spending time so close to _sorcery_ and _magic_ and other dangerous things, slows. “Especially what?

“Well, they say—“

“Who says?”

“I don’t know, people. People say there is a beautiful maiden...”

“Oh?”

“And they say that Samhain is the only time she may be…” Gwaine pauses for effect, “_seduced_.”

Leon scoffs. Arthur lets the corner of his mouth quirk up. “Only on Samhain, eh? What happens to her the rest of the year?”

“She’s not a _normal_ maiden, Arthur. Samhain is also—” Gwaine stops.

“It’s also what?”

“The, um, well, they say it’s the thinning of the veil.”

“The veil?”

“You know, between this world and the next. The Folk, and—”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just exaggeration. You know. Folk stories. Silly country myths. The Druids are simple people.”

“_They have magic, Gwaine_.”

“Yes, but, that doesn’t mean there’s anything to these silly, fearmongering legends. They were things your father said to keep people afraid of magic.”

“Magic _should be_ feared, Gwaine. Yes, we are trying to maintain this alliance, but that does not mean we should trust these people.”

“Well they do these rituals to pacify the angry spirits, so you can relax, Arthur. You’ll be helping.”

“Pacify them?”

“There may be… sacrifices… My Lord,” Leon explains.

“_Sacrifices_? Are you joking?”

“Just cattle, My Lord. They bring them down from the hills this time of year.”

“Great.”

“Emrys has invited you. You must attend,” Percival says. It is this added opinion, ultimately, that persuades Arthur.

Arthur leans back in his chair and looks at his companions. “Fine,” he says. “We ride at dawn.” He stares at each of them in turn. “And I better not have to end up rescuing any of you from some dark ritual. _And there better be beautiful maidens!_”

Arthur’s retinue reaches the Druid encampment just before dusk. He hears the faint beating of drums as they near. Two women, simply dressed, appear as if from nowhere amidst the orange and umber wood. Arthur suppresses his instinctual jump and disguises his fright beneath their gaze. Their eyes are clear and quick and miss little. He glances at Gwaine, who, with Percival, pulls his mount close beside Arthur’s on the path.

“Welcome, Arthur, King of Camelot,” says one of the women. Her hair is long and copper, simply plaited.

The other woman is blonde, with kohl-lined eyes and a narrow face. She points. “Emrys awaits, within.”

“Within what?” Arthur mutters. He nods his head to each of them. “Camelot thanks you for your hospitality.”

He ignores their shared look and rides on.

“See?” Gwaine whispers with a sly smile. “Beautiful maidens already.”

“Those women would eat you alive,” Percival tells him.

The Druid buildings emerge from between the thick trees. They appear at first rustic, but Arthur sees the subtle sophistication in their build; intricate woodwork holds them together, much like the structures he has visited in the far north and east, where barbarians and giants once ruled. He smells herbs and campfires, and the drums beat louder. Smaller buildings appear as well, and Arthur assumes they are houses and meeting halls. The forest floor, he realizes, has gradually become a well-maintained garden—nearly endless in scope. It is interwoven into the community, or the community is interwoven into the garden.

Standing stones dot the edges of the path, carved with intricate patterns of runes. Arthur eyes them with a shiver, knowing they hold a message, but unsure what it is. A curse? Protection? He thinks of the sorcerers he has seen unleash curses on the streets of Camelot. These runes are probably a sign of evil to come, and Arthur is too ignorant to know. He wishes, for a moment, that he paid more attention during Geoffrey’s endless lectures. It is too late now.

The path widens between the larger buildings, and Arthur notices more people. Families, young people and old, appear in various states of revelry. Apparently, Samhain is a time of celebration and no little excess. And all of them show an edge: eyes are a little too bright; smiles are a little too wide. A boy, no older than ten, stares at Arthur from a stone retaining wall. He grins, and his blue eyes flash gold. Crimson flower petals burst into life around Arthur, showering him like rain.

“Whoa,” Gwaine whispers. Arthur stays quiet and looks ahead.

The path ends at a town square. It is full of people, laughing and dancing. The drums are louder here, and now Arthur can hear the other instruments. Pipes and strings play a simple tune with a suggestive beat. Arthur feels it stir something in him. He stops and dismounts.

Gwaine and Percival flank him still, on foot now. The Druids have barely stopped to pay him mind. Arthur approaches a table where a group of young men and women are drinking from deep flagons, laughing and talking over one another. Like the others, the table is piled high with smoked meats and autumn fruit. He gazes past them to a large building, probably the town hall. “Is that Emrys’ court, beyond?” he asks aloud.

The revelers pause and look at him. A young woman turns and stares. “Court?” she repeats.

Arthur looks at her, but finds his eyes drawn to the man at her left. He is quieter than the rest, with a mess of black hair and eyes as blue and keen as a midsummer sky. Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but no sound emerges. “You are Arthur,” says the man. He looks at Arthur. His eyes start at Arthur’s, and then travel up, to his hair. They move to the cape clasped at his shoulders, and then across the chain shirt to his waist. When they travel below his hips, Arthur finds himself shifting, oddly decentered by the perusal. They take their time before arriving back at Arthur’s stare. The table, he realizes, has gone quiet.

“This is King Arthur of Camelot,” Leon announces, a moment too late and more formal than feels appropriate outside the great hall.

“I have come at the request of Emrys of the Druids,” Arthur adds. He realizes his voice is too loud, and the effect is one of discomfit and imbalance. He tells himself to take a breath. A scent like priceless exotic spice hangs in the air.

“Then welcome,” the man replies. His mouth does not quite form a smile, but his eyes are amused. They make Arthur even less certain; he wonders why this reception would be any different than the other kingdoms he has visited. He frowns with the thought. No one responds beyond these words, and Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Finally, he drags his eyes from the other man’s and takes in the rest of the Druids. They all watch him with skepticism and borderline mockery, and that suggestion fills Arthur with a restless sort of anger. He glances at Leon.

Leon takes a step forward with a hand at his sword. “King Arthur has come to break bread with Emrys and give his blessing for the Druid harvest. Take us to Emrys.” He takes a step back. “Please.”

A murmur of laughter passes around the table, further unsettling Arthur. He watches the blue-eyed man nod to someone behind him, and when he turns, he finds the women from the edge of the encampment. The blonde one smiles with bared teeth. “Come with us,” she bids. “We will take you within.”

The women lead the way with soft-swaying hips and languid motion. They reach for Arthur and pull him forward. At any other time, he would object, as would his knights, but something about their movements and that spicy scent make him disinclined to protest. He lets himself be led through the other revelers to the hall beyond.

Tall, heavy doors protect the hall. They are dark with oil and deeply and intricately carved with runes and symbols. Again, Arthur recalls something from his schooling that is just beyond his grasp. He knows he should be concerned, but the doors open before it can fully form.

A spotless floor laid with multihued stone reflects the light from countless candles suspended from the heavy beams, high over Arthur’s head. Light smoke lingers from the burning wicks. The scent is even more potent here, and Arthur shakes his head to clear it. He blinks and takes in the remainder of the room. Richly embroidered cushions are piled near low platforms, stacked, like the tables outside, with food and drink. A long table stretches along the back of the room with benches and stools along each side. Its surface is carved, like the door and the trees, with even more runes. “What do these mean?” Arthur asks the women. He looks up just in time to see the doors close behind them. “Hey—”

Gwaine pulls at the doors; they are locked.

Leon’s sword is already pulled. Percival frowns and shakes his head. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he grumbles.

“Never mind that,” Arthur tells him. “These runes. Does anyone recall anything like this? The meanings?”

Gwaine crosses the room and runs his hand across the tabletop. “Hm,” he says.

“Hm? Hm what?” Arthur asks. “Surely you’ve come across something like this during your travels? Or you, Percival.”

Percival also examines them. His brow creases. “This one is a pretty common symbol, here.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “Something about… two sides and balance? Does that sound right?”

Gwaine rubs a finger along it. “You’re right. I’ve seen this before. Light and dark, maybe? No, it was something about magic and power. I don’t remember exactly.”

“It is the balance between magic and man,” a voice says from behind Arthur. He turns. The blue-eyed man has joined them, having somehow entered the hall from behind. He is wearing long robes, Arthur sees now.

“Who are you?” Arthur asks.

“You can call me Merlin.”

“Okay, Merlin, I want to know where this Emrys is, and what he means by locking us up in this hall.”

Merlin’s lips—rather plump and pink for a man’s, Arthur notices—curl up at the corner in a subtle half-smile. “What do you know about Samhain?” he asks. The lights in the room seem to flicker, infinitesimally, at his words. Percival, Arthur notices, quietly pulls a dagger from his belt.

“We know it is a festival of the harvest, and that the fires are relit for the winter,” Arthur answers.

“You know the fires are lit, but not why?”

Arthur glares at him. “It is not for me to understand the traditions of _sorcerers_.”

Merlin glares back. “Sorcerers. You say that with such disdain. I thought we had moved past these… prejudices.”

“The old prejudices against sorcery died with my father, but Camelot will still observe our own traditions, not the superstitions that govern you.”

Merlin laughs. “Very well. I know you men of Camelot prefer to sacrifice in battle, rather than ritual.”

“Sacrifice?” Leon asks. “You mean the cattle?”

Merlin laughs again. His robes are sapphire and gold, and they shimmer as his body shakes with it. “Never mind that. So why did you come, then, if you don’t believe in our… superstitions?”

“To meet with Emrys.”

“Emrys wants to know what else has brought you.”

Gwaine steps toward Merlin. “Arthus will break bread with this Emrys and solidify the peace and alliance between the Druids and Camelot.”

“It will take more than breaking bread to solidify the peace and alliance.”

“Then why did Emrys invite us?” Arthur asks.

Merlin shrugs. “The opportunity to solidify, I’m sure, exists.”

“Like the maiden?” Gwaine asks.

“So that _is_ why you came.”

Arthur crosses his arms across his chest. “We have come because Emrys invited us. Does he now deny us a place at his table?”

“Of course not,” Merlin answers. “Quite the opposite. In fact,” he looks toward the door, “he asks that you enjoy yourselves. Freya!” The door springs open and the woman who had sat beside him peers into the hall. “Let the feast begin,” Merlin calls.

Druids spill into the hall. They carry yet more plates of food, and musicians bring their instruments, playing wild and merry tunes. Others dance and yell to each other. Arthur feels overwhelmed. He looks at Merlin. “I will not delay my meeting, Merlin. Take me to Emrys.”

“Later,” Merlin tells him. “First, you will dine and drink. Then we will prepare for the ritual.”

“What ritual?”

“Samhain.” Merlin grins. He takes up a goblet and swallows a deep gulp, then hands it to Arthur. “Trust me,” he says. His voice is soft, and Arthur stares into the cerulean eyes. He tips the goblet to his lips. It is warm. His tongue meets wine that is bold and rich with fruit and spice. “Trust me,” Merlin repeats.

Arthur watches his mouth move with the words. He doesn’t know why, but he bows his head in acquiescence.

The Druids celebrate with abandon. They push Arthur’s men down upon the cushions, surrounded by maidens and men in simple robes stitched with autumn leaves and flowers. At a nod from Arthur, they give themselves over to the excess—and even Leon lets his leg be stroked by a buxom lass.

Arthur is pressed onto a chair at the table. Merlin sits beside him and ensures his plate and glass are emptied and refilled repeatedly. “Tell me about these rune carvings,” Arthur insists.

Merlin smiles. “Wouldn’t you rather hear about the legendary maiden?”

Arthur shrugs. “Magic and man united? Call me intrigued.”

Merlin runs his finger across the carving, and Arthur watches the movement. Merlin’s fingers are slender and certain. Their motion is graceful, and Arthur feels something in his stomach tighten as he watches them. The candlelight highlights the paleness of Merlin’s skin, and the contrast of dark and light stirs something within Arthur. He drinks more wine.

“It is an old legend. A great ruler of the Druids will rise and unite with a great ruler of men.”

“And this great ruler. Is it Emrys?”

Merlin’s smile is accompanied by a faraway look. “Maybe. Some say so.”

“Because he is a great sorcerer?”

“He has a powerful magic, and has since birth. But it is more than that.”

“More?” Arthur leans toward Merlin. He can smell something that is not quite the musk of sweat or skin. He lets himself lean an inch further to investigate it.

“There are prophecies, Arthur,” Merlin says with a flippant little eye roll.

“You know you shouldn’t address me that informally, right?”

Merlin lets out a little huff. “Okay, _my lord_.” He giggles. Arthur’s stomach turns over. He has never been treated quite so casually—even when someone attacks him, it is a different kind of disrespect than this.

“Are all the Druids like you?” he asks.

Merlin licks his lips. “Like me?”

“Disrespectful.”

Merlin leans his head back and laughs, exposing the long, slender column of his pale throat. Arthur watches the shadows play around his Adam’s apple. “Probably. I don’t know,” Merlin answers. “Maybe not.”

“You seem remarkably unconcerned with introducing me to Emrys. Is that your charge? Are you some sort of advisor or something?”

Merlin’s eyes shutter a little. “Perhaps.” He leans toward Arthur as if sharing a secret. “Or maybe I don’t want you to meet Emrys.”

“Why not? Do you know him?”

Merlin laughs again, softly. “Oh yes. I know him intimately.”

The words send a shiver running through Arthur, and he tells himself it is nerves; the Druids have always been a dangerous unknown. “Intimately? You are… companions?” Arthur is swept with a hot, uneasy feeling.

“In a way.” Merlin looks away, smirking.

Arthur takes another drink. He does not like the feeling in his chest. “So tell me more about these sacrifices, Merlin.”

“We must pacify the gods before the Holly King grows in power, lest we starve or freeze in the coming months.”

“So you sacrifice your cattle?”

“We sacrifice many things, don’t you know?”

“I have been told the stories of human sacrifice are greatly exaggerated—scary stories to terrify children during my father’s reign.”

“Mm,” is Merlin’s only response. He, too, takes a deep drink. His eyes flit around the room.

“He has been dead for over a year, now,” Arthur tells him. “And I have done my best to make amends for the purges, for what little can be done.”

“It has not gone unnoticed.”

Arthur tries to form a reply, but thinks of nothing. Instead, he asks, “What about your father?”

“My father?”

“Is he alive? What is he like?” Arthur doesn’t know why he asks, but he finds himself curious. He tells himself he should demand to speak to Emrys again, but the night grows later, the party grows even wilder, and the spicy scent has mixed with Merlin’s to tie a knot at that place where his stomach turned over.

Merlin draws even closer as he answers, to be audible amidst the cacophonous celebration. Arthur feels his warmth pressed against his leg, his breath warm against his face. “My father,” Merlin tells him, “was a dragonlord.”

“A dragonlord?”

“He commanded dragons.”

“I thought they had died out.”

“No,” Merlin says.

“Tell me about them,” Arthur requests.

Arthur feels Merlin smile against his ear, and it sends a shiver through his body. “Let me tell you,” Merlin begins, “about the last dragon egg…”

Hours later, the party quietens. The blonde woman with the dark eyes approaches Merlin. “The moon is nearly ready,” she informs him. “We must prepare our guests for the ritual.”

Merlin pulls himself back from Arthur, who immediately feels cold where his body had pressed against him for so long. He blinks and sees his men in various states of relaxed dishabille. They have clearly given into the excess of the event. “Of course,” Merlin says. He looks across the hall. “Let them all be washed and dressed to meet her.”

“Her?” Arthur asks.

“Take them,” Merlin says. “I will personally see to the king.”

“The maiden? I told you, I want to meet Emrys, not some woman.”

“You seek an alliance. I can tell you this ritual would bind you to the Druids for all time.” Merlin stands. “Come.”

Arthur stands and follows him out a narrow door in the back of the hall. They climb a tight winding staircase. “I am not going to just marry some Druid woman, Merlin. I don’t care how beautiful she is.”

“The ritual is not quite marriage, My Lord. And she is not _just_ beautiful.” He opens a door. “She is a goddess.”

Arthur scoffs. “I’m sure.” He follows Merlin into a room. It is a dimly-lit bedchamber. An enormous copper tub is full and waiting at the end of the bed. Merlin steps over to it, mumbles something, and touches it. His eyes flash gold, and Arthur gasps. The water shimmers and starts to steam. “What did you—” Arthur stops. He watches Merlin sprinkle flower petals into the water.

“This is yours.”

“I don’t need to pretty myself up to go meet some woman—I don’t care if she’s…a goddess or what.”

“Arthur, just get in the bath. It’s part of the ritual.”

“Why would I need to bathe to watch you sacrifice some cows?”

“Are you a Druid?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well I am, and I say you need to take a bath, so get in.”

“Fine!” Arthur tosses his sword belt down and unclips his cape. He fumbles a bit as he pulls off his chain shirt, glad he went for decorative dress and not full armor. Still, he can see Merlin roll his eyes.

“Here,” Merlin says. He steps forward and helps him.

“You mean to help me bathe, like a servant?”

“It is part of the ritual.”

“This is bizarre.”

“Just shut up and take your clothes off.”

Arthur bites down on his lip, hard. He tries to ignore the completely irrational reaction his body has to those words, but he feels himself stirring. He coughs to give himself time to settle. When he looks up, he sees Merlin’s cheeks are flushed and he avoids meeting Arthur’s eyes. Arthur lets his smallclothes drop to the floor and steps out of them as Merlin turns away. Arthur steps into the tub, hissing at the heat.

“You do like to complain.”

“It’s scalding, Merlin. How powerful a sorcerer are you, anyway?”

Merlin just makes a small humming sound. “Lean forward,” he commands. Arthur finds himself complying.

The hot water relaxes him. It, too, is fragrant. Merlin takes up a cloth and dips it beside Arthur, who feels the movement on his skin. He feels _everything_ on his skin, and gooseflesh rises in response to the thought. “Cold?” Merlin asks. His breath is cool on Arthur’s wet back, and before Arthur can respond, the cloth finds his body. Merlin scrubs at his skin with the lathered cloth, starting with his back. He wets Arthur’s hair and soaps it, and Arthur closes his eyes in response. Merlin’s fingers dig into his scalp and massage, and he bites his lip to hold in a groan that tries to escape.

“What should I expect at this ritual, Merlin?”

Merlin sighs, and Arthur feels his hands purposefully glide down to his throat. The cloth returns to his skin and soaps his chest, and Arthur finds himself drawn back against the edge of the tub. He lets his arms be picked up and washed, one after the other. “Your feet,” Merlin whispers. He circles to the other end of the tub. Arthur lifts them, and Merlin washes them, too, almost tenderly. He lays the cloth over the edge of the tub. “I cannot do the rest.” He licks his lips and turns away.

Arthur rises and soaps himself. He finds his body is shockingly hard, and as he rubs lather into his skin, his flesh responds with an ache. Arthur shakes his head. He refuses to lose his mind over some Druid boy, even if his eyes are as deep and endless as the sea. He sits back down. “I am finished.” His voice is just above a whisper, too, and Merlin turns slowly. His shoulders visibly relax as he finds Arthur sitting. “Don’t you need to bathe, too?” Arthur asks.

Merlin’s skin flushes again. “That isn’t a part of this…”

“I think you should.”

“Why? Do you think I smell?”

Arthur feels his cheeks heat. “That isn’t it. Maybe I…”

“Maybe you what?”

“I want to help you, too.”

Merlin’s lips part. His gaze drops to the water, cloudy from soap. Arthur knows it’s unlikely, especially in the darkened room, but he wonders if somehow Merlin knows how hard he is. He throbs. “Do you?” Merlin asks.

“Yes.”

Merlin sucks in a breath. He picks up a woven cloth. “This isn’t what was planned,” he says. He steps forward with it, eyes on Arthur’s. Arthur stands. The fabric is soft and warm against his skin. It smells of lavender. Arthur steps out of the tub and stares at Merlin.

“Your turn,” Arthur whispers. “Now take your robes off.”

Merlin’s eyes darken. He grips the fabric and tugs everything over his head in one movement. Arthur steps back. He tries to avert his eyes as a gentleman, but the temptation is too much. He has bathed with his men on quests and hunting trips, but never looked at any like this in pale candlelight. Merlin is half turned, so Arthur can only see the long lines of his shoulders and chest, the dark line of hair tracing over the flat planes of his stomach to below, and a quick glimpse of the subtle sway of his cock as he turns and steps into the tub and sits.

Arthur kneels behind Merlin and repeats the bath ritual from the opposite side. He hears Merlin give a tiny gasp as Arthur’s hands find his shoulder, and another long breath when Arthur lathers his hair. When he strokes the arch of Merlin’s foot, Merlin bites his lip with a laugh and a moan, and Arthur has to stop for a moment to pull himself together. “I’m sensitive,” Merlin explains.

“You’ll have to finish yourself off, too.”

Merlin closes his eyes and nods.

Arthur dresses himself as Merlin completes his bath. They exchange no more words. As Merlin fixes his robes, a rap sounds on the door. “Enter.”

“It is time.”

The moon is bright in the clearing. The hill rises unnaturally at its edge, dotted with fires. At its top is the grandest fire of all, and the Druids lead Arthur there, his men behind him, all of them loose and too relaxed. Something tells him this is bad, but he cannot focus his mind on a single threat. “Gwaine is right,” he tells himself. “I worry too much.”

The Druids stop as they near the summit. “Where is Merlin?” Arthur asks the women who flank him. Their white robes shine with reflected moonlight. They shake their heads.

At the top of the hill stands the blonde woman. She shines, too, red in the firelight. She casts out her arms. “Oh Mother hear us!” she cries. “Let the goddess hear us and protect us in the long night to come!” The Druids call out in affirmation, words unrecognizable to Arthur’s ears. His men seem to shudder behind him.

“What is this?” Percival mutters.

“We bring thee a sacrifice!” calls the woman, and the fire seems to expand. It sends a wave of heat against Arthur’s skin.

“Where is Merlin?” he asks. “What’s happening?”

A figure appears in the fire. It steps forward. At first, it appears to be a beautiful maiden. She is young and nude and indescribably pure. Looking at her hurts Arthur’s eyes, but he refuses to back away. Her face shifts beneath Arthur’s gaze, and suddenly she is older. She is kindness and goodness, and it hurts Arthur’s chest. He clenches his fists, and she changes again. This time, she grows old and wizened. She is wiser than any of Arthur’s advisors—wiser, even, than his father’s. And then Arthur cannot tell which of the faces she wears. Somehow, she is all three women; Arthur shakes in terror. He tries to keep his eyes on her. “A sacrifice?” she hisses. Her voice, too, is threefold.

The blonde woman bows. “Yes, Mother. We bring you a sacrifice of four men: one for each turn of the year. One is loyal, one is courageous, one is joyful, and the other… The other is the king himself, Arthur of Camelot.”

“No,” Arthur whispers. His eyes search the crowd. “Where is Merlin?” he asks again. “Why did he not—”

“You fool!” the blonde woman yells at him. “Did you not know? Did you think you could _talk_ your way out of this? What did you _think_ you had been invited for?”

“To unite our people!”

“Yes,” she laughs, “when Emrys takes your throne!”

“Silence.” The goddess’ command is barely a whisper, but it cuts through the crowd like a whip. “Bring forward Emrys.”

The crowd stirs. Arthur turns, terrified and refusing to quake. His brain races, uncertain how he can defeat a goddess. He thinks of how he might talk himself out of the situation. And then the Druids part for Emrys to pass among them.

Merlin steps out of the crowd. The silver and gold embroidery of his robes shines like stars. On his head is a knotted crown. Arthur swallows. “Emrys,” he says. He finds he cannot be outraged. He finds he is not surprised.

“Arthur.”

The goddess steps between them. She seems to smolder from the fire, and Arthur forces himself to not back away. “Emrys. Is it true you bring me this sacrifice of men?”

“It is true, Mother, that I called you forth for your blessing, and that I brought these men.”

“Ah,” she says. She smiles and the effect is terrible; Arthur cannot help but look away. “I thought it may be time.” She laughs, and the sound is painful. “You have found the other half at last.”

“Other half?” The blonde woman steps forward. “What is this?”

“Silence, Morgause,” hisses the goddess. “You lack wisdom. You must spend more time with the priestesses to learn my truths.”

“Arthur Pendragon is the king of Camelot,” Merlin says. “I believe he is the Once and Future King who can unite magic and man.”

“The rune?” Arthur’s eyes widen. He remembers the way Merlin’s fingers traced the symbol and he shivers.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers. “Do this with me and let my magic bind us together. It will allow the Druids’ magic to flow freely again. We won’t have to live in hiding. We will be able to bless harvests and heal wounds.”

“Magic…” Arthur presses his lips together.

“It _isn’t _something to fear, Arthur. You know it. _Trust me_.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Take my hand.” Merlin reaches for him, and Arthur clasps his hand. Merlin holds their hands out to the goddess. She grips their fists with one hand and takes out a knife. Instinctively, Arthur pulls back, but Merlin leans close. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “She just needs a little blood.”

The goddess takes the edge of the athame and softly cuts first Merlin’s and then Arthur’s hands. She presses them together and squeezes until blood drips from their clasped hands. She lets the blood drip into the fire. It burns red and blue and gold, and the flames grow. “Magic and man,” the goddess chants, “magic and man. Let them be united again.” Her words change, then, and she chants in an old language that Arthur does not know. He looks at Merlin and sees his eyes, again, bright with gold. His skin begins to glow, too, and then gold begins to radiate from him like steam. Arthur feels something within himself shake and heat and call to it. It is uncontrollable, and he takes another step toward Merlin, even though they are already close.

The goddess stops. She tears a strip of cloth from her robe and wraps it around their hands to stanch the blood. “It is done,” she says. The fires go out. She disappears.

The Druids are silent, and Arthur can hear Merlin breathing beside him. Merlin intertwines his fingers with Arthur’s. “_Forbearnan_,” he says. Arthur feels something inside him pulse. A flame appears where the bonfire has gone out. “_Forbearnan_!” Arthur’s body pulses again. The fire grows.

Arthur hears the Druids murmur behind him. And then, like an eruption, the fires all burst to life. Arthur turns to stare at Merlin. “Emrys?” he whispers.

“My king.” Merlin bows his head.

“Why didn’t you say?”

“I needed to know if you were the one.”

“You decided so soon?”

“Arthur…”

“Merlin, I—” Merlin’s lips meet his in a rushed, abbreviated moment. Arthur pulls back, stunned. His body quakes. “Yes,” he whispers.

“Now it’s time for the rest of the festival,” Merlin says.

“Oh?” Arthur lets his brows raise in question.

Merlin smiles. “You’ll like this part.”

Arthur presses himself against him, just a small nudge.

Merlin presses Arthur’s hand to his lips. His tongue darts out and traces Arthur’s knuckle.

“I can’t believe you were going to sacrifice me.”

“Only maybe.”

“You made me bathe and prepare for it!”

“It’s tradition!”

“Well from now on I think we should make our own traditions.”

“Bold sentiment from someone I’ve only just met.”

“Oh you haven’t seen bold yet.”

Merlin turns. His free hand grips Arthur’s hip. “Show me, My Lord.” His crown glitters in the firelight.

“As you wish.”

As Arthur’s lips claim Merlin’s, the fires spark like shooting stars and the magic deeply rooted in the earth hums. The season turns and the spirits dance in the night. Their bodies writhe with arcane energy. Arthur lets his tongue trace the seam of Merlin’s lips, then delve between to dance with his. The spirits rejoice. They close their eyes.

The night, Arthur decides, has just begun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are greatly appreciated!!
> 
> I am not exactly sure if this makes any sense like it did in my head, so I hope it actually came across.


End file.
